


you know exactly where to take me

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Blow Jobs, Bottom Derek, First Time, High School, M/M, Prom, TA Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-26
Updated: 2013-09-26
Packaged: 2017-12-27 17:36:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/981727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles and Scott make it to prom! Derek is a history TA. There's porn that involves a tire swing and this is entirely ridiculous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you know exactly where to take me

**Author's Note:**

> this is for [reinventweather](http://archiveofourown.org/users/theadmiral/pseuds/reinventweather) who is a perfect asshole and gave me this prompt: sterek, “ _you are young and I am scared/you're wise beyond your years but i don't care/and I can feel your heart beat/you know exactly where to take me._ " metro station is hilarious and so is she.
> 
> stiles isn't underage! but it's still TA/student, so keep that in mind.
> 
> this is unbeta'd, so sorry for any typos! lemme know if you catch something. and [come say hi on tumblr](http://www.turnpikedarling.tumblr.com)!

“This is amazing,” Scott yells, slinging his arm over Stiles’ shoulder and cheesing for the camera. “Seriously, dude! This is amazing!”

“Prom!” Stiles yells back at him, a smile practically cracking his face in half, “We’re going to prom!”

“We’re _alive_ and we’re _going to prom_!” Scott screams right in his face.

On the other side of the lawn, the Sheriff and Melissa are laughing behind their cameras and trying to snap some civilized photos of their sons before they head off to the most-anticipated dance of their entire high school careers. It’s not going so well.

“Yo, mom,” Scott calls to her. “You get something good?”

“Stop squirming and we might,” Melissa yells, and Stiles laughs and pulls a face.

“Nice, bro,” Scott tells him, and scrunches his nose to match.

“Alright, boys!” The Sheriff walks up to them after a few more minutes of uselessly trying to wrangle them and claps Stiles on the shoulder. “I think we got enough. Did you guys get a limo?”

“Dad, please,” Stiles says, gesturing proudly to the Jeep. “This sturdy steed is all we’ll ever need. Right, Scott?”

To Scott’s credit, he lies flawlessly for the first time in his entire life. “She’s majestic, Stiles, and she’s gonna be a sick ride.”

Melissa comes strolling over and wraps her arm around Scott, rests her chin on his shoulder. “You aren’t taking Allison?”

Scott smiles, and Stiles can see him reach his hand up to grab her fingers in his. “She’s going with Lydia, but I’m gonna meet up with her there, mom,” he tells her, and she not-so-subtly slips a condom behind his boutonniere.

Stiles almost chokes on a laugh, and Scott breaks away from her and practically sprints across the lawn.

“I just want my boys to be safe!” she calls after them.

Stiles practically falls into the driver’s seat, rolling his sleeves up and wrinkling his tux before they even get to the school. “Don’t worry, Mrs. McCall! He will!”

“Both of you!” the Sheriff yells after them, but Stiles can barely hear him over the happy sound of the Jeep’s tires squealing over pavement and away from the driveway, heading toward the best night of their lives.

///

“This is the worst,” Stiles deadpans, elbowing Scott in the side. “Everybody’s sober, everybody’s awkward, and your girlfriend’s dancing with her wife, so _neither_ of us are getting laid,” he adds, gesturing vaguely toward the dance floor. Allison and Lydia are slow dancing there, arms wrapped around each other and heads leaned on each others’ shoulders, smiling to themselves every time the song changes and they just keep slow dancing.

“They have literally been waiting for this their entire lives,” Scott says. “Far be it from me to take any joy out of it whatsoever for them.”

“Whatever,” Stiles mutters, taking a sip of disgusting fruit punch. “At least you guys got a hotel room for later,” he says, and Scott laughs.

“I mean, if you want to join,” Scott says, trailing off suggestively and waggling his eyebrows.

“Do not even joke about that, Scotty,” Stiles warns, finger raised for emphasis and pointed directly at the middle of Scott’s chest accusingly. “Do not even test me right now.”

Scott backs off, making placating hand gestures as he scans the room. Stiles sees his eyes land on something and brighten up, and he follows his gaze across the gym to where a group of teachers are standing, presumably hating themselves and every choice they ever made in their lives that led them to this night, the night when they are chaperoning Beacon Hills High School’s prom.

“Oh,” Stiles says quickly, figuring out where Scott’s going before he even speaks. “Don’t you dare open your mouth. Don’t even do it,” he says, whipping his eyes back to his best friend.

Scott dares. “I mean, I notice that Derek is standing over there,” he starts, but Stiles claps his hand over Scott’s mouth before he can get any farther.

“I do not want to talk about Derek. I _do not_ want to talk about Derek,” Stiles says vehemently.

Derek is Stiles’ AP European History TA. He’s been Stiles’ AP European History TA since January, when his perfect eyes and his perfect arms and his perfect ass had sauntered into the classroom and started drawing an octopus on the board and citing pop music as a parallel for the demise of European culture. Derek is probably only twenty-two but he’s got a five-o-clock shadow that makes him look like he’s thirty, and Stiles wants to mount him like a fucking vault. It’s obscene, the way that Stiles stares during class. His grade slipped from an A to a C+ in the first two weeks of Derek’s tenure, and the only reason it ever recovered is because Stiles’ dad threatened to have Derek fired. Derek’s a problem, is what he is.

He’s Stiles’ problem, and he’s standing by the punch bowl with the other teachers and pretending to be interested in the conversation and doing a terrible job of it, from what Stiles can see. His arms are crossed over his chest and he isn’t smiling and his eyes are practically glazed over. Stiles almost laughs, but Derek lifts his head for a second and meets Stiles’ eyes and gives a little wave, and so Stiles almost falls over instead.

“Smooth,” Scott tells him, watching the exchange with glee. “You’re definitely gonna get laid like that.”

Stiles scowls and swats at him.

“Who said anything about getting laid?”

“You, Stiles,” Scott says. “You did.”

“Yeah," Stiles answers, smiling like he’s proud of himself for constantly talking about sex. “I really did.”

“Get laid with Derek,” Scott suggests.

“Because it’s as easy as that,” Stiles argues, and Scott just stares at him. “Have you seen him, dude?” Stiles asks.

“Have you seen _you_ , dude?” Scott counters.

Stiles considers this. “Another fair point to you, McCall,” he says wisely. “And I do have condoms and lube in my pocket.”

“Of course you do. And Derek wants to bone you. Are you gonna spike the punch or what?” Scott asks, changing the conversation, and they wait until the teachers clear out to pull out their flasks and make this shit a little more interesting.

///

Stiles is standing in the dimly-lit corner of the gym and staring out at the sea of his classmates in front of him, secretly drunk and obviously disorderly, shimmying to the Top 40 hits the surprisingly decent cover band is playing. The punch cup he’s holding is upended and thrown back so the sugary sweet red sludge he spiked can slide a little easier down his throat, and he’s wondering how the hell he ended up being crowned Prom King at this godforsaken dance anyway.

That had been surreal. The lights had gone down and everybody got quiet and Finstock had sauntered up on stage and spent five minutes asking the crowd why they’d chosen Stilinski as their leader. Lydia shrieked the loudest and started clapping when he finally took the stage, and he’d seen Scott and Allison with their arms clung tightly around each other smiling up at him for encouragement. He didn’t make a speech, or anything, just stood there while their friend Aja got crowned queen, and then they’d danced while everyone watched and the band played an awkward version of K-Ci and JoJo’s “All My Life” even though it was ten years too late for that to be relevant. Some things are just eternal.

Stiles had ducked out immediately afterward and downed some whiskey straight from his flask, and now he’s hiding in the dark so he doesn’t have to go back out there. His crown keeps tipping backward off his head when he tries to move, so he takes it off and stares at the glued-on sapphires stuck onto the thing, plastic and gaudy as hell and _fantastic_ , if he’s being honest with himself.

He’s in the middle of trying to focus his eyes on the gem in the center of the highest spike when he feels a warm weight slide up next to him against the wall. “Yo, bro, this space is - whoa.” When Stiles looks up, his hot TA from history class is standing next to him. _Derek_ , Stiles reminds himself. _His name is Derek_. Not that Stiles has been trying to lay game on that for the entire semester, or anything.

"Hey, Derek," Stiles manages to say before he drains the rest of the punch in his cup. Better now than never, or however the saying goes.

"Stilinski," Derek says, warily eyeing the empty drink cup Stiles is now rolling in his palms. "I know that’s spiked."

"To the victor goes the spoils," Stiles answers, not even pretending that he didn’t bring alcoholic beverages onto school grounds for mass consumption by underage minors. "And I’m talking about the hard work it took to sneak that by everyone, not this thing," he adds, tapping the crown and holding it up for Derek to see.

Derek snorts. When Stiles looks back up, Derek places the crown delicately back on his head and adjusts it for him, patting it down to stay. “It looks good on you,” he says, and Stiles almost drops dead from the impact of that sentence.

"Do you even know my first name?"

"Nobody knows your first name, Stiles," Derek deadpans.

"Fair point." Stiles pushes off of the wall and takes an idle step out before he turns and faces Derek. Derek’s got his ankles crossed and he’s smirking up at Stiles. Derek’s only barely leaning, and it strikes Stiles that he might be the taller one, here, and Derek looks like he knows it and he likes it. He’s looking up at Stiles from under his pornographic eyelashes, and he looks like he knows exactly what’s about to happen, so Stiles does what he wants and proves Derek right. He braces one palm on the concrete next to Derek’s cheek and drops his empty cup right there on the gymnasium floor, leans in and gets his punch-stained lips up next to Derek’s ear.

"Listen," Stiles starts, and he can feel Derek laughing at him quietly. He probably isn’t even shocked at all. "I know you’re probably not shocked at all," he continues, "But I think the way you say ‘Charlemagne’ is really fucking hot.”

" _Charlemagne_ ," Derek says, and Stiles doesn’t miss the way he enunciates every single syllable, the way his obscene tongue darts in and out of his mouth on the _l_ , the way his lips purse in a proud victory.

"You think you’re so cute," Stiles sneers, but there’s no heat behind it. He ghosts his breath over Derek’s pulse, hums a teasing sigh into his skin and lays a hand on his chest.

"I think you’re seventeen," Derek tells him, but Stiles can feel his heartbeat skyrocketing.

"Joke’s on you," Stiles whispers. He grabs Derek’s hand and pulls him out the back door of the gym, forgetting his crown and dragging Derek toward the empty playground. "I turned eighteen last month, and there’s a tire swing out here that could really use a lecture on the Defenestrations of Prague."

///

“Say it again,” Stiles says. He’s straddling the tire swing, legs through the chains on either side and his tuxedo jacket flung somewhere on the mulch around them and buttons undone all the way down, and Derek is standing in front of him slowly undressing himself for Stiles’ viewing pleasure.

“Say it again,” Stiles whines when Derek smirks down at him, thumbing open his belt.

“ _Bastille Day_ ,” Derek whispers, pulling the leather from its loops and dropping it on the ground where Stiles can see it. “ _Gunpowder plot_ ,” he says, and Stiles groans. “ _Battle of Austerlitz_ ,” Derek murmurs, and his hands go to the collar of his shirt as he starts to unbutton it.

“Jesus,” Stiles breathes, dropping his palm to his dick and pressing hard, willing it not to do anything embarrassing just yet. “I’m gonna nut in my pants if you don’t move a little faster.”

“You really know how to charm a guy, Stilinski,” Derek deadpans, adding, “ _Declaration of the Rights of Man_ ,” for good measure.

“Just take your clothes off,” Stiles almost shrieks. He feels desperate, sitting there with Derek standing in front of him. He’s been staring at Derek all semester, like he’s this unattainable dream that Stiles will never have. For a kid who’s had trouble concentrating all his life, Stiles thinks it probably means something that he set his sights on Derek a few months ago and then his line of vision never wavered. He didn’t actually believe anything would happen - banging a TA is every kid’s wet dream and never their reality - but it gave him focus, to pine for Derek. This smart, insanely hot dude gave him something to cling to, to ground him, to bring him back to himself and remind him how to do what he knows how to do when he needs to. And now he’s the prom king and he’s sitting on a playground in the back of his school watching this dude strip, and everything is surreal and wonderful.

“Do you know how long I’ve thought about this?” Stiles asks.

Derek nods and kicks off his pants, and Stiles’ jaw drops. “Stiles, if you think I didn’t notice the loud-mouthed Sheriff’s son who sat at the back of the class and stared at me for the entire period, you’re insane. Every time I turned around your eyes snapped up to meet mine just so you could prove you weren’t staring at my ass.”

Derek walks forward and grips the tire swing chains and Stiles looks up at him, huge expanses of skin he wants to get his hands on, just Derek’s boxer briefs keeping him from being naked in the middle of this playground.

“You noticed my mouth?” is all that Stiles can ask.

“You can touch me, Stiles,” Derek says, jutting out his chin once in a nod. That’s all that Stiles needs. Stiles reaches out fast and pulls Derek to him, pulls Derek onto his lap as the tire swing moves. Stiles lets his hands roam everywhere, tangling into the back of Derek’s hair and splaying over the small of his back, digging his nails in before they skitter off somewhere else, trying to touch everything all at once.

“Jesus, Derek, you feel amazing,” Stiles breathes into the crook of Derek’s neck, and then he pulls himself together and lifts his chin. “I’ve gotta get my clothes off. I’ve gotta kiss you. Fuck, I’ve got so much to do,” he breathes, and then he pulls Derek down for a kiss, sliding their lips together and pushing his tongue into Derek’s mouth with a heavy, hot gasp. Derek hums and wraps a hand around the back of Stiles’ neck and Stiles pushes forward, uses it to anchor himself in Derek, gets both hands on Derek’s hips and holds him there as they press together, their lips finding each other over and over again in the dark open air.

When they break apart, Stiles looks up at Derek. “Seriously, though, you noticed my mouth?” he asks again.

Derek outright laughs at him and leans forward, slides his lips against Stiles’ ear. “I bet you want to find out what you can do with it, don’t you?” he asks, and he slides his hands up and under both of Stiles’ shirts, pulling them up and over Stiles’ head.

“I’m not a virgin, Derek, I’ve given blowjobs before,” Stiles huffs, and Derek calls him on it. “Okay, fine, I’m a virgin. But I’ve given a blowjob before. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it,” Stiles concedes, adding, “And I’m good at it too.”

“Want to show me?”

“Fuck yeah,” Stiles breathes, and Derek hops off of the tire swing and strips his underwear off, standing in front of him, cock half-hard in the tragically cliché moonlight. Stiles sits up and scoots forward, gets a hand on Derek’s dick and starts jacking him slowly, slowly, a little too dry. He spits in his hand and tries again, and it’s better. He swipes his thumb through the precome beading at the head of Derek’s dick and runs his tongue through the slit of it, and Derek shakes against him.

“Is this okay?” Stiles asks, and Derek nods down at him, tangles their fingers together. He brings their hands up and kisses the back of Stiles’ hand. “ _Treaty of Westphalia_ ,” Derek whispers, and Stiles loses it. He sinks his mouth down onto Derek’s cock and pops back off only quickly enough to say, “Fuck, who knew I had a thing for European history?” He swipes his tongue along the shaft and tries to remember to cover his teeth, bobbing up and down along with Derek’s breaths.

“I really hope,” Derek spits out, still holding Stiles’ hand, “that you only have a thing,” he gasps, “for European history,” another moan, “because you have a thing for me.”

Stiles stops long enough to look up and meet Derek’s eyes, his mouth still stretched around Derek’s dick, and then he swallows down again, far enough to meet his fingers where they’re gripped around the base. He desperately wants to take Derek all the way down, to let him choke into the back of his throat, but he’s not good enough at this yet and he’s just drunk enough that he’s worried about it getting a little disgusting.

“Fuck, Stiles,” Derek spits, “you’re so smart. Do you know that? Do you know how smart you are?”

Stiles hums and Derek whines. “I’m gonna come, Stiles, I’m gonna come,” Derek stutters, and Stiles pops off of him just in time for Derek to come all over him, all over his face and chest, and Stiles pulls him through the aftershocks with a smug little smirk playing over his mouth.

Derek collapses onto him on the tire swing again and buries his face in Stiles’ neck. “You doing okay there, buddy?” Stiles asks, and Derek nods and Stiles smiles despite himself. They sit like that for a minute and Stiles lets Derek recover and purposely doesn’t gloat or anything like that.

After a few moments of silence, Stiles floats a suggestion. “So, you know, I have condoms and lube in my pocket,” he says, and Derek looks up at him with one perfectly raised eyebrow.

“Oh,” he says flatly. “Do you.”

“Yeah, dumbass, I do,” Stiles sighs fondly, hauling Derek back up onto his lap. “God, you’re solid.”

“I work out.”

“I noticed.” Stiles wraps his arms around Derek’s waist and leans up for a light, soft kiss. “Who knew you’d be so sweet?” Stiles wonders, and Derek smiles against his mouth.

“So,” Derek redirects. “You have condoms and lube in your pocket because you were hoping you might get lucky,” he acknowledges, and Stiles doesn’t even have the decency to blush.

“I was absolutely hoping I might get lucky,” Stiles agrees, and then he traces a hand down Derek’s back. “But I never thought I’d get just this lucky,” he tells Derek, and he means it.

“Yeah, okay, you’re a big romantic,” Derek says, and he slips a hand down to palm Stiles’ dick through his pants. “And you’re hard.”

Stiles barks out a laugh. “Tell me something I don’t know, asshole,” he says, and his hips jerk up into Derek’s touch.

Derek starts undoing his belt and helps Stiles shimmy out of his pants so they’re both naked on the tire swing, slowly casting from one side to the other. Derek leans in and smiles at him when he’s straddling him again and he whispers, “You’re going to get to fuck me tonight,” and Stiles would be embarrassed by how quickly his dick starts to leak but he’s too wrapped up in what Derek just said to care.

“That is definitely something I didn’t know,” Stiles breathes, and his eyes almost bug out of his head when Derek sinks one of his own fingers into his ass, lifting up and down on it as he meets Stiles’ eyes.

“You have that lube?” he asks, and Stiles leans down for the pants he just shucked, trying not to look away as he roots around for the little plastic packets in his pocket. Stiles finds it and hands it over, watches as Derek lubes up his fingers and presses them in again, two this time, in and out and in an out.

“You look so good, fuck,” Stiles breathes, and Derek throws his neck back. Stiles doesn’t know where to touch first, so he runs his hands up Derek’s thighs, presses his thumbs into Derek’s hips and traces the hair there, where it starts and runs straight down to Derek’s dick, half-hard again and trapped between them.  
  
“Please, Derek,” Stiles asks, and Derek looks down at him again.

“Grab a condom,” Derek tells Stiles, and he’s got it faster than the lube. Derek opens it and pinches the tip, rolls it on to Stiles’ dick. Even that touch is enough to make Stiles shake. “You ready?” Derek asks.

“Fuck yes,” Stiles yells, and then laughs at himself at the same time Derek does. Stiles grips his hands around the chain of the tire swing, still singing softly, as Derek lifts his ass over Stiles’ hips and sinks down onto his cock, tight and hot and better than Stiles could have ever imagined.

“Shit,” Stiles breathes out, and Derek smiles and braces a hand on his chest as he bottoms out.

“Your dick is awesome,” Derek says, totally matter-of-fact, like he doesn’t have a dick up his ass.

“Thanks,” Stiles smirks, and Derek lifts himself and sinks down again and Stiles can’t process much after that. Derek sets up a lazy rhythm, slow circles above Stiles hips, and sinks down all the way every so often, slamming their bodies together. Stiles lets his head fall back as they fuck and he wonders how the hell this became his life: fucking his hot TA on prom night on a tire swing. It’s not real. It can’t be real. It’s _totally_ real, he decides, and snaps his eyes open to watch Derek fuck himself onto his dick.

“You’re so beautiful,” Derek breathes, sweat rolling down his neck, and Stiles just grins.

“You feel really fucking cool,” Stiles tells him, and Derek laughs again. “Is that a stupid thing to say?” Stiles asks. “I don’t really care, because it’s true.”

“I’m glad I feel cool,” Derek says, and he hitches his hips over and over again, sliding down onto Stiles, and Stiles starts to break. He can feel it happening, the heat building in the bottom of his stomach as he fucks into Derek, tight and hot and beautiful.

“Derek, Derek, Derek,” he chants. “I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come,” Stiles breathes, and Derek, the total fucking asshole, whispers, “ _Charlemagne._ ”

“I hate you so much,” Stiles shouts as he comes, and Derek wraps a hand around his own dick and jacks himself off between them until he’s coming again too, making another mess all over Stiles’ chest.

Stiles leans his head forward and rests his forehead on Derek’s chest, smiling into his skin and wrapping his arms around Derek, keeping him there, keeping him sweet. He digs his nails into Derek’s back and whispers, “You’re an asshole.”

Derek hums and runs a hand through Stiles’ hair. “I like you so much,” he murmurs, and Stiles tightens his grip.

“Can this be a thing?” Stiles asks.

Derek pauses. “You mean tire swings?” he asks.

“I mean us,” Stiles says, a little unsure for one of the first times the entire night.

“I think you’ve gotta graduate,” Derek answers, but Stiles knows that’s not a _no_ , so he waits him out.

“But yeah,” Derek adds after a minute. “I’d really like it if this were a thing,” and that sounds like a hell of a _yes_ , to Stiles. That sounds like the best _yes_ that Stiles has ever heard.


End file.
